


Important Things to Forget

by cereal



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:18:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just to be clear, he says, was it the copping a feel or the doing it in your sleep that youre sorry for?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Important Things to Forget

**Author's Note:**

> * * *

The most important thing to remember is that he is a Time Lord, in control of all his conscious body functions, and a great majority of the unconscious ones.

He can regulate his breathing, his heart rate, his temperature, and he can certainly, absolutely stop himself from thinking about the neck of Rose's shirt.

He can stop himself from thinking about how it's just loose enough to see the curve of collarbone, but only when she moves the right way.

He can stop himself from planning activities that dictate those precise movements. He can stop himself from thinking about tugging it lower and lower and lower, the cotton giving way to the swell of her breasts, the soft, smooth skin, places to kiss and nuzzle and lick.

He can stop all that and say instead, "Where shall we go today, Rose?"

But he doesn't.

He sets the course himself and off they go.

&&.

The most important thing to remember is that he is more than 900 years old and if he spent time dwelling on every hang up, every embarrassing moment, he'd never stop blushing.

Plaxicot Z and their incredibly potent wine, days at the Academy and his robes done up wrong, just last week in the wardrobe, Rose stumbling in sleepy and bleary-eyed as he tried on some armor, just to see how fast he could run in it.

(Fast enough, but practice makes perfect.)

So, no, he can't linger, can't fixate on every tiny misstep, and he certainly can't allow himself to feel bad about the rough landing and where his hand had ended up.

It's not anything worth fretting over that his fingers had bunched in her shirt, scrambling for purchase and leverage and to keep her upright, because he had, he'd kept her upright, and she'd laughed.

He can't possibly bother with mortification for the give of the fabric, the tight, little, ripping noise, the way her collar is now a drooping, gaping, malformed thing, and the way her skin smells amazing.

No, his hearts just naturally beat this fast, and that flush on his cheeks?

It's a rosy glow.

&&.

The most important thing to remember is that he is busy, very busy, with very many things to do, and he can't stop for a quick change of clothes.

"Onward, Rose," he has to say. "No one's going to notice that your clothes are a little rumpled."

No one but him, of course.

Well -- and maybe he could tug on his ear, just to help focus -- no one but him and the entire population of Dronderidia.

Including the authorities.

&&.

The most important thing to remember is that he can't possibly remember everything.

He can't be expected to know every law, of every time period, of every single planet.

That's patently unreasonable.

And he is nothing if not reasonable. Unlike the guards that bound their wrists, a loose collar and a loose necktie and another trip to jail.

Rose, too, Rose is quite reasonable as she reasonably asks him, "What's the plan, Doctor?"

And, really, it's more reason, more complete, rational, sound reason, for him to lie and pretend he has one.

"Wait it out," he says, and he tries not to say how unreasonable it is that part of the punishment for dishelved clothing is to be stripped of it entirely.

He also, logically, suggests huddling together for warmth.

Well, her warmth, he's a Time Lord after all, and he hasn't forgotten -- he can regulate his temperature.

&&.

The most important thing to remember is that he is a man.

He is a man, whose body responds like a man's when presented with his lovely companion in only her underthings, curled up and asleep and hand on walkabout across his chest.

The press of her skin and the cotton of her knickers, the slick, satiny feel of her bra, and his own pants seeming smaller and itchier and clingy-er as the minutes tick by.

Should have made those bigger on the inside, too. He sees that now.

There's a market for that, transdimensional boxer briefs, and he's just the bloke to tap into it.

Her hand moves lower and it's a very manly noise he makes, the rumbling, little whimper that jostles Rose enough to wake her.

It's practically the embodiment of masculinity, the way he keeps his eyes so fixedly on her face when she sits up that she swipes at her nose three times.

Oozing testosterone, he is, when he hurls himself into a corner as Rose stretches, arms above her head, the flat of her stomach and so much skin, just there for the licking.

The plan is to wait it out, and he'll wait from here.

&&.

The most important thing to remember is that he is not in control of the TARDIS. Or of much, really.

He is not the one that has changed the hallways, changed the rooms, changed the location of their clothes as soon as they dropped them, barrelling through the door as they fled, with absolutely no time to dress.

That's not him, any of it.

The only thing he's in control of is the de-materialization sequence and the decision to sit next to Rose, beautiful, knicker-clad Rose, on the jump seat.

She swings her legs and he swings his, but even that, once he gets going, is out of his hands.

When Rose turns to him, grinning and warm and practically glowing, he's just following age-old patterns in body language, mirror your companion, open posture, lick your lips and stare at their mouth.

Almost as old as time itself, those routines.

And if he sits up straighter, puffs out his chest, as her eyes skate down his body, well, that's just reflex.

He's making himself a bigger target.

&&.

The most important thing to remember is that Rose can remember, too.

"Sorry about that, this morning," she says.

"Oh, hardly your fault we missed breakfast," he says.

She laughs and shoves at his arm and he's still so near her, turned in so close.

"I meant about trying to cop a feel in my sleep," she says.

"Forgotten already," he says, and he can tell, somehow, that the TARDIS hasn't changed back, that they're still stuck in the console room, in just their pants.

He keeps it to himself and Rose stays tucked up beside him and does sorry imply regret? It does, doesn't it?

Which part does she regret?

"Just to be clear," he says, "was it the copping a feel or the doing it in your sleep that you're sorry for?"

Her eyes widen, and then she smiles.

&&.

The most important thing to remember is Rose.

He needs to remember, needs to file away for future use, the way she shivers when his lips meet that spot on her neck.

He has to make sure not to lose, not to ever, ever misplace, the feel of her tongue sliding against his.

It's forever there now, Rose under his fingers, soft and warm and wet. The noises, loud, pitchy things that bounce around the console room and burrow deep inside of him and, oh.

How -- how is he supposed to ever think of anything again that isn't the feel of her legs locked around his hips as he stands in front of her, pushing her body and his into the jump seat, fingers catching on the rough fabric and Rose's hair is so much softer.

He can't possibly find space for it all, her breasts pressing into his chest as he leans further still, her teeth on his shoulder, her nails on the skin of his back.

That's it, it's decided, the rhythm of their hips will have to be the measure of time now, because it's the only thing he ever wants to sense again.

And when it's over, when they lie boneless and spent and the rotor brightens and the doors come back, he remembers who he is, and he panics.

But Rose, Rose who he will never forget, she smiles and kisses him and he remembers the man he could be.

* * *


End file.
